Tonight, I am colour, shape, and form. I'm begging for truth from incandescent hues.
I'm a million different facets of a heavy, ethereal gem, Lying awake in bed under a heavy blanket
Of longing, but also of brilliance.
Nightingale tune is urging its way through the cracks in my window and it finds me so sullenly dreaming.
Tonight, I am the uncomposed. Tonight, I am the unwritten, unsung rhapsody of a history of aimless troubadours, bards and vagrant minstrels.
I am the young boy, and I am the violin.
I am February's shredded paper heart, and I am distance.
Tonight, I am the center of my very own nothingness.
Tonight, I am fleeting and temporal.
I am love, and I am loss.
Tonight, I am the kept.
Tonight, I am every lover's secret, bound in scarlet ribbon and tucked safely under a rapidly vacated wardrobe, sealed in wax, and kissed.
Tonight, I am lace, and I am cold steel.
Because, you see?
Tonight, I'm sorting it all out,
Sifting through the sands and keeping the heaviest parts, but
What more did I expect to find?
Than to be stranded here with a heavy heart,
On my own little island of sand.